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 By Alfred Tennyson

My good blade carves the casques of men,

My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel:
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

—From “Sir Galahad.”

OPPORTUNITY
By Edward Rowland Sill

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:—

There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle’s edge,

And thought, “Had I a sword of keener steel—
That blue blade that the king’s son bears—but this
Blunt thing—!” he snapped and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

THE FIRING LINE

By Joaquin Miller

For glory? For good? For fortune or fame?

Why, he for the front when the battle is on!
Leave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, the lame,
Go forward as ever the valiant have gone;
Whether city or field, whether mountain or mine,
Go forward, right on to the Firing Line.

Whether newsboy or plowboy, cowboy or clerk,

Fight forward, be ready, be steady, be first;
Be fairest, be bravest, be best at your work;
Exalt and be glad; dare to hunger, to thirst,
As David, as Alfred—let dogs skulk and whine—
There is room but for men on the Firing Line.
Aye, the place to fight and the place to fall—
As fall we must, all in God’s good time—
It is where the manliest man is the wall,
Where boys are as men in their pride and prime,
Where glory gleams brightest, where brightest eyes shine,
Far out on the roaring red Firing Line.

HOW OSWALD DINED WITH GOD

By Edwin Markham

Over Northumbria’s lone, gray lands,

Over the frozen marl,
Went flying the fogs from the fens and sands,
And the wind with a wolfish snarl.

Frosty and stiff by the York wall

 Stood the rusty grass and the yarrow:
Gone wings and songs to the southland, all—
Robin and starling and sparrow.

Weary with weaving the battle-woof,

Came the king and his thanes to the Hall:
Feast-fires reddened the beams of the roof,
Torch flames waved from the wall.

Bright was the gold that the table bore,

Where platters and beakers shone:
Whining hounds on the sanded floor
Looked hungrily up for a bone.

Laughing, the king took his seat at the board,

With his gold-haired queen at his right:
War-men sitting around them roared
Like a crash of the shields in fight.

Loud rose laughter and lusty cheer,

And gleemen sang loud in their throats,
Telling of swords and the whistling spear,
Till their red beards shook with the notes.

Varlets were bringing the smoking boar,

Ladies were pouring the ale,
When the watchman called from the great hall door:
“O King, on the wind is a wail.

“Feebly the host of the hungry poor

Lift hands at the gate with a cry:
Grizzled and gaunt they come over the moor,
Blasted by earth and sky.”

“Ho!” cried the king to the thanes, “make speed—

Carry this food to the gates—
Off with the boar and the cask of mead—
Leave but a loaf on the plates.”
Still came a cry from the hollow night:
“King, this is one day’s feast;
But days are coming with famine-blight;
Wolf winds howl from the east!”

Hot from the king’s heart leaped a deed,

High as his iron crown:
(Noble souls have a deathless need
To stoop to the lowest down.)

“Thanes, I swear by Godde’s Bride

This is a cursèd thing—
Hunger for the folk outside,
Gold inside for the king!”

Whirling his war-ax over his head,

He cleft each plate into four.
“Gather them up, O thanes,” he said,
“For the workfolk at the door.

“Give them this for the morrow’s meat,

Then shall we feast in accord:
Our half of a loaf will then be sweet—
Sweet as the bread of the Lord!”

—From “The Shoes of Happiness and Other Poems.” Copyright by

Doubleday, Page & Co., and used by kind permission of author and
publisher.

HOW THE GREAT GUEST CAME

By Edwin Markham

Before the Cathedral in grandeur rose,

At Ingelburg where the Danube goes;
Before its forest of silver spires
Went airily up to the clouds and fires;
Before the oak had ready a beam,
While yet the arch was stone and dream—
There where the altar was later laid,
Conrad the cobbler plied his trade.

II

Doubled all day on his busy bench,

Hard at his cobbling for master and hench,
He pounded away at a brisk rat-tat,
Shearing and shaping with pull and pat,
Hide well hammered and pegs sent home,
Till the shoe was fit for the Prince of Rome.
And he sang as the threads went to and fro:
“Whether ’tis hidden or whether it show,
Let the work be sound, for the Lord will know.”

III

Tall was the cobbler, and gray and thin,

And a full moon shone where the hair had been.
His eyes peered out, intent and afar,
As looking beyond the things that are.
He walked as one who is done with fear,
Knowing at last that God is near.
Only the half of him cobbled the shoes;
The rest was away for the heavenly news.
Indeed, so thin was the mystic screen
That parted the Unseen from the Seen,
You could not tell, from the cobbler’s theme
If his dream were truth or his truth were dream.

IV

It happened one day at the year’s white end,

Two neighbors called on their old-time friend;
And they found the shop, so meager and mean,
Made gay with a hundred boughs of green.
Conrad was stitching with face ashine,
But suddenly stooped as he twitched a twine:
“Old friends, good news! At dawn to-day,
As the cocks were scaring the night away,
The Lord appeared in a dream to me,
And said, ‘I am coming your Guest to be!’
So I’ve been busy with feet astir,
Strewing the floor with branches of fir.
The wall is washed and the shelf is shined,
And over the rafter the holly twined.
He comes to-day, and the table is spread,
With milk and honey and wheaten bread.”

His friends went home; and his face grew still

As he watched for the shadow across the sill.
He lived all the moments o’er and o’er,
When the Lord should enter the lowly door—
The knock, the call, the latch pulled up,
The lighted face, the offered cup.
He would wash the feet where the spikes had been;
He would kiss the hands where the nails went in;
And then at the last would sit with Him
And break the bread as the day grew dim.

VI

While the cobbler mused, there passed his pane

A beggar drenched by the driving rain.
He called him in from the stony street
And gave him shoes for his bruisèd feet.
The beggar went and there came a crone,
Her face with wrinkles of sorrow sown.
A bundle of fagots bowed her back,
And she was spent with the wrench and rack.
He gave her his loaf and steadied her load
As she took her way on the weary road.
Then to his door came a little child,
Lost and afraid in the world so wild,
In the big, dark world. Catching it up,
He gave it the milk in the waiting cup,
And led it home to its mother’s arms,
Out of the reach of the world’s alarms.

VII

The day went down in the crimson west

And with it the hope of the blessed Guest,
And Conrad sighed as the world turned gray:
“Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay?
Did You forget that this was the day?”
Then soft in the silence a Voice he heard:
“Lift up your heart, for I kept my word.
Three times I came to your friendly door;
Three times my shadow was on your floor.
I was the beggar with bruisèd feet;
I was the woman you gave to eat;
I was the child on the homeless street!”

—From “The Shoes of Happiness and Other Poems.” Copyright by

Doubleday, Page & Co., and used by kind permission of author and
publisher.

PICKETT’S CHARGE
By Fred Emerson Brooks

When Pickett charged at Gettysburg,

For three long days, with carnage fraught,
Two hundred thousand men had fought;
And courage could not gain the field,
Where stubborn valor would not yield.
With Meade on Cemetery Hill,
And mighty Lee thundering still
Upon the ridge a mile away;
Four hundred guns in counterplay
Their deadly thunderbolts had hurled—
The cannon duel of the world!
When Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

When Pickett charged at Gettysburg,

Dread war had never known such need
Of some o’ermastering, valiant deed;
And never yet had cause so large
Hung on the fate of one brief charge.
To break the center, but a chance;
With Pickett waiting to advance;
It seemed a crime to bid him go,
And Longstreet said not “Yes” nor “No,”
But silently he bowed his head.
“I shall go forward!” Pickett said.
Then Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

Then Pickett charged at Gettysburg;

Down from the little wooded slope,
A-step with doubt, a-step with hope,
And nothing but the tapping drum
To time their tread, still on they come.
Four hundred cannon hush their thunder,
While cannoneers gaze on in wonder!
Two armies watch, with stifled breath,
Full eighteen thousand march to death,
At elbow-touch, with banners furled,
And courage to defy the world,
In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:

None but tried veterans can know
How fearful ’tis to charge the foe;
But these are soldiers will not quail,
Though Death and Hell stand in their trail!
Flower of the South and Longstreet’s pride,
There’s valor in their very stride!
Virginian blood runs in their veins,
And each his ardor scarce restrains;
Proud of the part they’re chosen for:
The mighty cyclone of the war,
In Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:

How mortals their opinions prize
When armies march to sacrifice,
And souls by thousands in the fight
On Battle’s smoky wing take flight.
Firm-paced they come, in solid form
The dreadful calm before the storm.
Those silent batteries seem to say:
“We’re waiting for you, men in gray!”
Each anxious gunner knows full well
Why every shot of his must tell
On Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:

What grander tableau can there be
Than rhythmic swing of infantry
At shouldered arms, with flashing steel?
As Pickett swings to left, half-wheel,
Those monsters instantly outpour
Their flame and smoke of death! and roar
Their fury on the silent air—
Starting a scene of wild despair:
Lee’s batteries roaring: “Room! Make room!!”
With Meade’s replying: “Doom! ’Tis doom
To Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!”

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:

Now Hancock’s riflemen begin
To pour their deadly missiles in.
Can standing grain defy the hail?
Will Pickett stop? Will Pickett fail?
His left is all uncovered through
That fateful halt of Pettigrew!
And Wilcox from the right is cleft
By Pickett’s half-wheel to the left!
Brave Stannard rushes ’tween the walls,
No more disastrous thing befalls
Brave Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:

How terrible it is to see
Great armies making history:
Long lines of muskets belching flame!
No need of gunners taking aim
When from that thunder-cloud of smoke
The lightning kills at every stroke!
If there’s a place resembling hell,
’Tis where, ’mid shot and bursting shell,
Stalks Carnage, arm in arm with Death,
A furnace blast in every breath,
On Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg.

’Tis Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg:

Brave leaders fall on every hand!
Unheard, unheeded all command!
Battered in front and torn in flank;
A frenzied mob in broken rank!
They come like demons with a yell,
And fight like demons all pell-mell!
The wounded stop not till they fall;
The living never stop at all—
Their blood-bespattered faces say:
“’Tis death alone stops men in gray,
With Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!”
 Stopped Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg
Where his last officer fell dead,
The dauntless, peerless, Armistead!
Where ebbed the tide and left the slain
Like wreckage from the hurricane—
That awful spot which soldiers call
“The bloody angle of the wall,”
There Pickett stopped, turned back again
Alone, with just a thousand men!
And not another shot was fired—
So much is bravery admired!
Pickett had charged at Gettysburg.

Brave Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg!

The charge of England’s Light Brigade
Was nothing to what Pickett made
To capture Cemetery Hill—
To-day a cemetery still,
With flowers in the rifle-pit,
But no one cares to capture it.
The field belongs to those who fell;
They hold it without shot or shell!
While cattle yonder in the vale
Are grazing on the very trail
Where Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

Where Pickett charged at Gettysburg,

In after-years survivors came
To tramp once more that field of fame;
And Mrs. Pickett led the Gray,
Just where her husband did that day.
The Blue were waiting at the wall,
The Gray leaped over, heart and all!
Where man had failed with sword and gun,
A woman’s tender smile had won:
The Gray had captured now the Blue,
What mortal valor could not do
 When Pickett charged at Gettysburg.

—Copyright by Forbes & Co., Chicago, and used by kind

permission of author and publisher.

“INASMUCH....”
By Edwin Markham

Wild tempest swirled on Moscow’s castled height;

Wild sleet shot slanting down the wind of night;
Quick snarling mouths from out of the darkness sprang
To strike you in the face with tooth and fang.
Javelins of ice hung on the roofs of all;
The very stones were aching in the wall,
Where Ivan stood a watchman on his hour,
Guarding the Kremlin by the northern tower,
When, lo! a half-bare beggar tottered past,
Shrunk up and stiffened in the bitter blast.
A heap of misery he drifted by,
And from the heap came out a broken cry.

At this the watchman straightened with a start;

A tender grief was tugging at his heart,
The thought of his dead father, bent and old
And lying lonesome in the ground so cold.
Then cried the watchman starting from his post:
“Little father, this is yours; you need it most!”
And tearing off his hairy coat, he ran
And wrapt it warm around the beggar man.

That night the piling snows began to fall,

And the good watchman died beside the wall.
But waking in the Better Land that lies
Beyond the reaches of these cooping skies,
Behold, the Lord came out to greet him home,
Wearing the hairy heavy coat he gave
By Moscow’s tower before he felt the grave!

And Ivan, by the old Earth-memory stirred,

Cried softly with a wonder in his word:
“And where, dear Lord, found you this coat of mine,
A thing unfit for glory such as Thine?”
Then the Lord answered with a look of light:
“This coat, My son, you gave to Me last night.”

—Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Co., New York, and used by

kind permission of author and publisher.

THE MAN UNDER THE STONE

By Edwin Markham

When I see a workingman with mouths to feed,

Up, day after day, in the dark before the dawn,
And coming home, night after night, through the dusk,
Swinging forward like some fierce silent animal,
I see a man doomed to roll a huge stone up an endless steep.
He strains it onward inch by stubborn inch,
Crouched always in the shadow of the rock....
See where he crouches, twisted, cramped, misshapen:
He lifts for their life;
The veins knot and darken—
Blood surges into his face....
Now he loses—now he wins—
Now he loses—loses—(God of my soul!)
He digs his feet into some earth—
There’s a moment of terrified effort....
Will the huge stone break his hold,
And crush him as it plunges to the gulf?
The silent struggle goes on and on,
Like two contending in a dream.
 —Copyright by Doubleday, Page & Co., New York, and used by
kind permission of author and publisher.

TO GERMANY
By George Sterling

Beat back thy forfeit plow-shares into swords:

It is not yet, the far, seraphic dream
Of peace made beautiful and love supreme.
Now let the strong, unweariable chords
Of battle shake to thunder, and the hordes
Advance, where now the famished vultures scream.
The standards gather and the trumpets gleam;
Down the long hill-side stare the mounted lords.

Now far beyond the tumult and the hate,

The white-clad nurses and the surgeons wait
The backward currents of tormented life,
When on the waiting silences shall come
The screams of men, and, ere those lips are dumb,
The searching probe, the ligature and knife.

II

Was it for such, the brutehood and the pain,

Civilization gave her holy fire
Unto thy wardship, and the snowy spire
Of her august and most exalted fane?
Are these the harvests of her ancient rain
Men reap at evening in the scarlet mire,
Or where the mountain smokes, a dreadful pyre,
Or where the warship drags a bloody stain?

Are these thy votive lilies and their dews,

That now the outraged stars look down to see?
 Behold them, where the cold prophetic damps
Congeal on youthful brows so soon to lose
Their dream of sacrifice to thee—to thee,
Harlot to Murder in a thousand camps!

III

Was it for this that loving men and true

Have labored in the darkness and the light
To rear the solemn temple of the Right,
On Reason’s deep foundations, bared anew
Long after the Cæsarian eagles flew
And Rome’s last thunder died upon the Night?
Cuirassed, the cannon menace from the height;
Armored, the new-born eagles take the blue.

Wait not thy lords the avenging, certain knell—

One with the captains and abhorrent fames
The echoes of whose conquests died in Hell?—
They that have loosened the ensanguined flood,
And whose malign and execrable names
The Seraph of the Record writes in blood.

IV

From gravid trench and sullen parapet,

Profane the wounded lands with mine or shell!
Turn thou upon the world thy cannons’ Hell,
Till many million women’s eyes are wet!
Ravage and slay! Pile up the eternal debt!
But when the fanes of France and Belgium fell
Another ruin was on earth as well,
And ashes that the race shall not forget.

Not by the devastation of the guns,

Nor tempest-shock, nor steel’s subverting edge,
Nor yet the slow erasure of the suns
Thy downfall came, betrayer of thy trust!
 But at the dissolution of a pledge
The temple of thine honor sank to dust.

Make not thy prayer to Heaven, lest perchance,

O troubler of the world, the heavens hear!
But trust in Uhlan and in cannoneer,
And, ere the Russian hough thee, set thy lance
Against the dear and blameless breast of France!
Put on thy mail tremendous and austere,
And let the squadrons of thy wrath appear,
And bid the standards and the guns advance!

Those as an evil mist shall pass away,

As once the Assyrian before the Lord:
Thou standest between mortals and the day,
Ere God, grown weary of thine armored reign,
Lift from the world the shadow of thy sword
And bid the stars of morning sing again.

—Copyright by A. M. Robertson, publisher, San Francisco, and

used by kind permission of author and publisher.

TO THE WAR-LORDS
By George Sterling

Be yours the doom Isaiah’s voice foretold,

Lifted on Babylon, O ye whose hands
Cast the sword’s shadow upon weaker lands,
And for whose pride a million hearths grow cold!
Ye reap but with the cannon, and do hold
Your plowing to the murder-god’s commands;
And at your altars Desolation stands,
And in your hearts is conquest, as of old.
The legions perish and the warships drown;
The fish and vulture batten on the slain;
And it is ye whose word hath shaken down
The dykes that hold the chartless sea of pain.
Your prayers deceive not men, nor shall a crown
Hide on the brow the murder-mark of Cain.

II

Now glut yourselves with conflict, nor refrain,

But let your famished provinces be fed
From bursting granaries of steel and lead!
Decree the sowing of that deadly grain
Where the great war-horse, maddened with his pain,
Stamps on the mangled living and the dead,
And from the entreated heavens overhead
Falls from a brother’s hand a fiery rain.

Lift not your voices to the gentle Christ:

Your god is of the shambles! Let the moan
Of nations be your psalter, and their youth
To Moloch and to Bel be sacrificed!
A world to which ye proffered lies alone
Learns now from Death the horror of your truth.

III

How have you fed your people upon lies,

And cried “Peace! peace!” and knew it would not be!
For now the iron dragons take the sea,
And in the new-found fortress of the skies,
Alert and fierce a deadly eagle flies.
Ten thousand cannon echo your decree,
To whose profound refrain ye bend the knee.
And lift into the Lord of Love your eyes.

This is Hell’s work: why raise your hands to Him,

And those hands mailed, and holding up the sword?
 There stands another altar, stained with red,
At whose basalt the infernal seraphim
Uplift to Satan, your conspirant lord,
The blood of nations, at your mandate shed.

—Copyright by A. M. Robertson, publisher, San Francisco, and

used by kind permission of author and publisher.

PAULINE PAVLOVNA
By T. B. Aldrich
(Scene: Petrograd. Period: The present time. A ballroom in the
winter palace of the prince. The ladies in character costumes and
masks. The gentlemen in official dress and unmasked, with the
exception of six tall figures in scarlet kaftans, who are treated with
marked distinction as they move here and there among the
promenaders.
Quadrille music throughout the dialogue. Count Sergius Pavlovich
Panshine, who has just arrived, is standing anxiously in the doorway
of an antechamber with his eyes fixed upon a lady in the costume of
a maid of honor in the time of Catherine II. The lady presently
disengages herself from the crowd, and passes near Count
Panshine, who impulsively takes her by the hand and leads her
across the threshold of the inner apartment, which is unoccupied.)
He. Pauline!
She. You knew me?
He. How could I have failed? A mask may hide your features, not
your soul. There’s an air about you like the air that folds a star. A
blind man knows the night, and feels the constellations. No coarse
sense of eye or ear had made you plain to me. Through these I had
not found you; for your eyes, as blue as violets of our Novgorod, look
black behind your mask there, and your voice—I had not known that
either. My heart said, “Pauline Pavlovna.”
 She. Ah, your heart said that? You trust your heart then! ’Tis a
serious risk! How is it you and others wear no mask?
He. The Emperor’s orders.
She. Is the Emperor here? I have not seen him.

He. He is one of the six in scarlet kaftans and all masked alike.
Watch—you will note how every one bows down
Before those figures; thinking each by chance
May be the Tsar; yet none know which is he.
Even his counterparts are left in doubt.
Unhappy Russia! No serf ever wore such chains
As gall our Emperor these sad days.
He dare trust no man.

She. All men are so false.

He. Spare one, Pauline Pavlovna.

She. No! all, all!

I think there is no truth left in the world,
In man or woman.
Once were noble souls.—
Count Sergius, is Nastasia here to-night?

He. Ah! then you know! I thought to tell you first.

Not here, beneath these hundred curious eyes,
In all this glare of light; but in some place
Where I could throw me at your feet and weep.
In what shape came the story to your ears?
Decked in the teller’s colors, I’ll be sworn;
The truth, but in the livery of a lie,
And so must wrong me. Only this is true:—
The Tsar, because I risked my wretched life
To shield a life as wretched as my own,
Bestows upon me, as supreme reward—
O irony!—the hand of this poor girl.
Says, “Here I have the pearl of pearls for you,
Such as was never plucked from out the deep
By Indian diver, for a Sultan’s crown.
Your joy’s decreed,” and stabs me with a smile.

She. And she—she loves you.

He. I know not, indeed. Likes me perhaps.

What matters it?—her love?
Sidor Yurievich, the guardian, consents, and she consents.
No love in it at all, a mere caprice,
A young girl’s spring-tide dream.
Sick of her ear-rings, weary of her mare,
She’ll have a lover—something ready made,
Or improvised between two cups of tea—
A lover by imperial ukase!
Fate said the word—I chanced to be the man!
If that grenade the crazy student threw
Had not spared me, as well as spared the Tsar,
All this would not have happened. I’d have been a hero,
But quite safe from her romance.
She takes me for a hero—think of that!
Now by our holy Lady of Kazan,
When I have finished pitying myself, I’ll pity her.

She. Oh, no;—begin with her; she needs it most.

He. At her door lies the blame, whatever falls.

She, with a single word, with half a tear,
Had stopt it at the first,
This cruel juggling with poor human hearts.

She. The Tsar commanded it—you said the Tsar.

He. The Tsar does what she wills—God fathoms why.

Were she his mistress, now! but there’s no snow
Whiter within the bosom of a cloud,
No colder either. She is very haughty,
For all her fragile air of gentleness;